Denial, Despair, Desire
by VampPhile
Summary: A look into Buffy's thoughts during the T'ai Chi scene in "Revelations".


**"Denial, Despair, Desire"**

****

"Angel." She said the word simply, stepping through the door and walking further into the large, open room in the center of the mansion. Buffy's eyes darted one way, then the other, as she sought out the figure she had come here to see. She took a breath, then called out again. 

"Angel." This time, the word was a little louder, but no more fraught with emotion than if she had been taking an order for fries at the local McDonald's.

Her voice echoed in the main hall, waves of sound vibrating through the air until they bounced off the seemingly ancient walls.

*It really does seem as though these rooms have been here since the dawn of time,* she contemplated as one foot moved silently before the other, and she took another step into the room. It was so soft, so quiet inside, the moon outside shining down onto pavement, treetops, and the mansion itself.

"Angel?" Now, for the first time, the slightest amount of concern crept into Buffy's voice. He might be upset with her, still, but that was no reason as to why he wouldn't answer her. He had always answered her before.

"Buffy."

She turned-- she was already halfway into the hallway—and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw him there, standing halfway in shadow.

"I thought--" she began, but then she broke off. She had thought he might want some company, but how was she to say that without sounding like a pestering, simpering child? Or worse yet, as though she were pining over him and their lost love. When their eyes met, she felt as though she were falling further, deep and downward into a pit. Maybe some day she'd be able to climb out.

Maybe some day she would want to.

He was motionless: a pale but brilliant statue in the dim light. He wore dark pants and a belt, and the smooth, sensitive expression that he always kept so tightly wrapped around himself. 

After a few seconds' time, Angel's eyes left hers, and traveled down her arm to her hands, where he could usually expect to find a brown paper bag with some sort of blood product in it. There was none today. 

When their eyes met again, he broke the silence. "Is everything alright?"

"I thought you might want some company."

He raised one eyebrow and stepped aside, motioning for her to come further into the room. She followed the motions, and as Angel led her in to the mansion's main room, she noticed that the furniture had been moved, leaving an open space in the center of the room. She glanced back at him, noticing for the first time the thin sheen of perspiration that covered his flesh. "I interrupted

you."

"It's alright."

Buffy looked at him for a moment, then shook her head, leaving her backpack on the sofa and moving to the center of the room, where footprints marred the dust that had settled since the previous May. "Good things vampires aren't athsmatic, huh?" At his confused expression, Buffy shook her head and moved so that her shoes fell within the imprints of where Angel had stood before her arrival. "What were you doing?"

"Some exercises. Training."

She lifted her eyes from the floor, to his eyes, and watched as he looked at her, half-squinting even in the sparse light that managed to make its way through the mansion's windows. "Show me?"

He looked at her for several seconds, and Buffy wondered if she had asked a stupid question, if she was prying, if perhaps Angel was trying to brush her off and she was just too dense to get the hint. Then, finally, he nodded slowly and moved around the couch to stand several feet away from her. "Stand with your legs apart. Like this."

"I am." She pointed at her feet.

"That's too far...here...like this. Squared. With your shoulders."

She adjusted slightly, and looked up. "Like this?"

He glanced at her, his eyes traveling quickly over her shoes, and nodded. "That's right. Now...clear your mind." 

Buffy swallowed, then nodded. "Okay."

Angel looked away from her, toward the wall that faced them. His eyes locked on to something distant, and it took Buffy a moment to realize she was supposed to do the same. 

She pushed away all her thoughts, finding it so much easier a task to accomplish than it had once been. Countless lessons with Giles rushed back to her mind's barriers, but she shut them out, refusing to remember even the barest hint her Watcher had given her on how to make herself ready to fight, to hunt, to train. She had to be an empty slate, to let the rush of the work itself fill her like a vessel. Nothing could stand in the way.

"You don't have to close your eyes," Angel said quietly, and even though he was several feet away she felt almost as though his voice was in her ear. When she opened her eyes, she realized why. Her teacher had moved from his place on the floor, and was now standing directly behind her, his body pressed against her own as he slid his hands down her arms, slowly, guiding her limbs along a torturingly slow path.

"You have to let your muscles relax," he whispered, wrapping his hands around her wrists. "You have to let go."

"I'm trying," she replied, no louder than he had been. 

"Don't speak," he shushed, though his voice was kind and quiet.

As one, he guided her arms upward. If she had been in worse shape, Buffy could imagine how much the excruciatingly slow movement would burn, stretching her muscles slower and more thoroughly than she was used to-- the warm-ups she did before training with Giles were usually quick, hurried, barely adequate.

She had the feeling this was less for warming up, more for centering herself. It might have worked, if Angel hadn't been the one showing her how to move. 

"Now, you have to imagine you're pushing down on something, and bring your arms back down. Slowly. Slower." His arms stopped pushing on her own, and now he was touching her wrists with barely the weight of a feather, letting her control the speed of her movements on her own, but still there, gently correcting her when she erred, gently reminding her with a whispered word when something had to be changed.

She felt Angel leaning into her slightly, his hands pushing her arms to one side. She turned with him, extending her left arm while pushing against it with her right as he continued walking her through the movements. His leg moved, and when she felt the first twitch of the muscle, she made the move his own motion had implied, until she was moving almost without his taking action at all. By

that point, Angel was merely standing by as Buffy let the motions take on a life of their own, following her body and soul as they determined what the next move would be.

She felt slivers of ice letting go of her wrists, trailing back up her arms. She felt his chest move away from her back, the thin material of her dark brown tank top doing nothing to prevent his chill from touching her.

When he stepped away, she brought her movements to an abrupt halt.

"Don't--"

"Am I doing something wrong?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly when she spoke.

"No," he reassured her, a soft smile creeping forward from his lips. "You're fine."

"Then what?"

He moved into his own position, stretching his arms high over his head, then turning his face to look at her. "You're a natural," he said quietly.

Buffy felt a slight flush creeping into her cheeks, and shook her head. "It feels natural," she replied. She wasn't sure if she was referring to the movements, or to the feelings that were coursing through her body and mind as she stood only feet away from him.

He seemed to understand, whatever it was she was saying, and he offered her the slightest of smiles before moving his gaze to the wall before them. "Now," he said, "do what feels natural."

She half-smiled and nodded, waiting for him to begin. That, she realized, was what felt natural: to be near him, to exist with him, to follow his lead and to let him sweep her away. And even if there was no way she could do that under anything resembling normal circumstances, there certainly shouldn't be any problems with her following her instincts when they were alone, in his home.

His arms began to descend, at a rate so slow as to be barely noticeable. The amount of muscle control Angel had attained in the amount of time he had been doing this, which Buffy realized, might well have been centuries, was incredible, and never before had she seen it so well displayed. It was almost more than she could stand to do to take her eyes off of him and move them to the wall before her, counting on her peripheral vision to tell her how he was moving and what she should do next.

Painstakingly slowly, she stretched her arms out over her head, flexing her fingers, letting the muscles of her wrists tingle in anticipation of what was to come. Almost immediately, she could feel the blood in her extremities begin to move a little faster, course through her veins with a little more force. Though perhaps that was merely Angel's presence.

As the muscles around her knuckles and fingers began to question when she would let them relax, Buffy redoubled her efforts to keep them straight, forcing herself to a limit she was surprised to find came so soon. The next muscles to begin complaining were those in her upper arms, though that was nearly a full minute later. By the time her arms were fully extended in front of her, bending ever-so-slightly at the elbows, they were straining to stay steady, but she refused to allow them to tremble. 

If she couldn't keep them from hurting, she could at least keep herself from showing the pain.

Slowly, slowly, she let her arms arc around her, in a half circle. Her palms were still even with one another as Angel did the same thing a few feet away. It was almost as though she knew where and how he was going to move before he did it, or perhaps now he was following her. Whichever the case, they were moving in tandem, and that felt more natural to Buffy than anything else had in a long time.

Without turning her hips, Buffy pushed her arms as far as they could go, and when that goal had been achieved she slowly extended one and bent the other, using her right hand to hold her left wrist steady as they both moved across her field of vision. She refused to let her eyes follow her hands, instead clearing her mind and rejoicing in the simplicity of the motions she was going through,

in their complete demands for her attention, in how the exercise left no room for any thoughts other than how much longer this would go on or how much harder she could push herself. In that, it was almost like Slaying, but without the risks of damage to body and soul.

Angel was saying nothing, doing nothing other than the movements, and suddenly Buffy was acutely aware of the silence, as though someone had pushed it in front of her and pointed out how unnatural it was, despite its soothing qualities.

The moment the thought flitted across her mind, Buffy felt her eyelids flutter, and almost before she realized what was happening she had glanced toward Angel. She looked back at her hands immediately, the moment the realization struck her, but it was too late. She had already seen the tableau which was now burned into her mind: Angel, intent on his own motions, his own body, his own actions, barely aware of her presence. 

He was beautiful. Earlier in her visit, she had likened him to a statue. Now, it was as though the statue had come to life, as though some outside force had flooded it with the ability to move, but not to emote; to see, but not to express or register what it saw. And although Buffy knew it was merely shadows playing tricks on her mind, when she let her eyes close for the briefest of

moments she could almost see sunlight dancing on his skin. 

As her eyes fluttered open again, she realized he was turning toward her, that he would see her if she didn't look away. A moment after he began to move, she did the same, turning her back to him and bringing her arms back downward, to her sides, slightly bent. Unsure of what to do next, she hesitated.

Even though she couldn't see him, Buffy could still feel Angel's presence behind her. It was as though the air itself provided currents by which she could feel his motions, as though even though she couldn't see him she could still predict where he was moving, what he was doing. She could almost feel his hands as they slowly rose, and she followed the actions despite not being sure whether or not they were actually being taken.

As she began to move through the routine again, at an ninety degree angle from where she had begun, Buffy felt a slow shiver wind its way down her spine. She pushed the thoughts from her mind, reminding her of what Angel had told her. She had to clear her mind.

But how was she to do that when she could hardly stand the thought of his being so close? So close, and yet she couldn't touch him, couldn't hold him. Couldn't be near him.

She took in a deep breath as her hands passed before her eyes, knowing she was moving too quickly and yet unable to keep herself from doing so. Expectation rushed through her veins, in equal parts with anticipation and fear. Fear of what, she wasn't sure, though it might have something to do with emotions and expectations and desires and the man whose hands were slowly coming closer to her own.

Buffy could feel Angel's hands, though they were inches from her own. She could feel them so certainly that the fine hairs on the back of her palm were standing on end, creating a field of goosebumps that prickled against his cool flesh when his hands enveloped her own, his fingers entwining themselves around her palms and over her fingertips. She felt her right wrist as it bumped against his, felt her left hand sinking into his palm. 

She felt him recoil for the barest of instants, and for a moment she froze, afraid of what might happen if he touched her hands again, if he touched any of her again. The muscles in her arms faltered, and she began to bring them down again-- but before they moved more than half an inch, he took them again.

As Angel gently let his hands rest in the air, only the tiniest amount of space over hers, more gooseflesh rose on her forearms. It was as though he was afraid to touch her, but wanted to as badly as she desired the contact. Her breath fluttered in her throat as Buffy felt Angel against her back once more, as his knee touched the back of her leg, as her small waist fit softly against

his smooth stomach.

She felt his chin touch her hair as he shifted position to let her rest her head against his chest. His shoulders moved as the position of his arms changed again, as he let his palms rest fully against the backs of her hands, as she watched his hands moving into her field of vision and wondered where this was headed, what they were doing, and why.

She was entranced by his fingers, at the way his hands covered hers completely. So strong, so powerful, yet so gentle. So frightened. His hands were trembling, shaking, and she wasn't sure if it was from the exercise or from their shared contact.

His arms were almost encircling her now, brushing her shoulder as his hands continued to guide hers down. She let her eyes follow both sets of hands as they moved. She let herself sink farther into him as Angel brought their hands to her sides, finally unentwining her fingers and resting his palms on her hips.

As Buffy began to turn, Angel's fingers never lost contact with her skin, riding along the rim of her jeans as she moved. Likewise, his forehead continued to rest against her hair as she looked downward, then traced the hands on her stomach back up along his long, strong arms.

When she could no longer bear to look over his smooth, sculpted skin, Buffy raised her eyes quickly, letting them lock with Angel's. Only then did his hands leave her waist, winding their way around to her lower back, resting there. He didn't pull her closer, but he didn't push her away. As she stared into his

eyes, their deep, dark pools seemed to beckon her forward, invite her into them. So she moved closer, her lips parting almost of their own accord as Angel tilted his face downward and moved closer to her. 

They seemed to stop in that moment for an eternity. It was as though time stood still, as though the air around them tingled with an electricity that could hold them in place forever.

Then Buffy felt the chill that had always preceded Angel's kiss, thanks to the way the warm Southern California air was always above Angel's normal body temperature, and it was as though the circuit holding the electricity of the moment in place had been broken.

Angel pulled away first, though only barely, and if Buffy hadn't pulled away immediately afterward he might have tried to kiss her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she pulled away and moved toward her backpack, murmuring only a few words by way of an explanation.

"I better go." Quickly, she began to push things into her bag, unsure of how they had found their way out when she had dumped them there. In the meanwhile, she made idle chatter. "Big night for us Slayer types. People to see, demons to kill..." Everything packed, Buffy straightened up, turning to walk back to the doorway. "Better hurry before somebody figures out what we're doing."

"What are we doing?"

She stopped in her tracks at the question, knowing she had no ready answer, but also knowing she owed him one. "Training," she said. But she could hear the rustle of fabric behind her, feel the betrayal she would leave behind if she left the answer at simply that. Again, tears threatened to break through, and again she had to fight them back. "And almost kissing." 

Buffy turned, facing Angel as his hands worked their way down the buttons on his shirt. "I'm sorry. It's just...old habit." She had to look away then, because she knew she would hate herself for what she was about to say, even though at the same time she knew she had to say it. Once upon a time, she would have believed Angel would be able to stop himself from doing something that could put them all in danger...but now, she didn't know if that was the case,

and even if it was it wasn't fair to leave him to shoulder all the responsibility of their relationship. So she had to set things straight, now, and make sure he realized she couldn't do this any longer. No matter how much she would hate herself for ending it when she left, or later that night, or for the rest of her life...and no matter how unsure she was that she would even be able to follow through on what she was going to say. "Bad, bad habit...to be broken."

His expression didn't change as he looked down at her, and in his eyes Buffy could see all the love she felt toward him reflected. "It's hard."

She shook her head, unwilling to let him make it be that easy to dismiss. "It's not hard. Cold turkey. It's the key to quitting." He looked at her as though he could see straight through her, and Buffy could feel her resolve weakening. Her throat tightened. "You think they make a patch for this?"

"You have to go."

Hating the way he used the words to avoid both their feelings, she said, "I really do." She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to kill him, she wanted to hold him and never let him go, but none were options and none would have helped the ache in her chest that should have closed over months ago, but for some reason was still bleeding raw in her soul. There was only one solution, and even it

wasn't permanent. "I'm gonna try and vent a little hormonal angst by going out there and killing a Lagos, whatever that is." 

"Lagos." 

She nodded, refusing to acknowledge the sudden, interested expression on his face, the one tempered by a concern she didn't want to know the root of. "Some demon looking for some all-powerful thingamabob and I gotta stop him before he unleashes unholy havoc, and..." She trailed off for a bare second as Angel sank down to sit atop a coffee table, fighting every instinct she had, all of which told her to stay, to grill him, to find out what he knew...because in her mind, she knew if she stayed she might do something she would later regret. So she pushed on, filling the void with mindless chatter. "It's another tuesday night in Sunnydale." 

"Be careful." He didn't look up at her as he spoke.

As she turned and walked out the door, Buffy felt her stomach turning over and over inside her, and knew tears would come as soon as she was out of sight of the mansion.

She shouldn't have come, she told herself, no matter how much she had wanted to see Angel. She never, ever should have come.

Despite that, Buffy wasn't deluding herself. She knew she would come back.

END CHAPTER ONE

Copyright 1998

Rachel Brody

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